


come and go

by el_em_en_oh_pee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Harm to Animals, that is - if albino peacocks can be considered animals.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-31
Updated: 2007-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_em_en_oh_pee/pseuds/el_em_en_oh_pee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>those peacocks really are going to take over the world, you know. Written for my dear hippo's 2007 birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come and go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serpentqueen13](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=serpentqueen13).



* * *

  
i. sometimes when draco is feeing especially horrible, he sneaks out of the manor (of course when bellatrix is sleeping) and calls the peacocks to him. they usually mind people getting close, the peacocks, or so he's observed, but he can't help but notice that they don't seem especially aggressive around him. and when the weight of all that he's doing, for a madman that he secretly never wanted to support, is especially constricting, sometimes, somehow, the peacocks will sense it and spread their tails around him and hide his mangled sobs until he can face his duties again.

ii. one day, when he's forcing himself to study the banned defense spells by wandlight under his threadbare counterpane (because of course the dark lord is too much 'otherwise occupied' to bother with the comfort of his inferiors), mouthing the words, envisioning casting them (before, of course, he remembers that potter stole his wand), he feels a chill. looks up. no-one's there, but he can't help but shake the feeling that someone has just walked past.

iii. and then he's with her again, always her, her, her. potter failed to rescue her; she was in the other dungeon. the one for people whom the dark lord deems serviceable in ways that political prisoners can never be. draco's not usually in charge of these, but since she is close to him in age, the dark lord gave him special dispensation. draco suspects that _he_ never has carnal urges, doesn't expect him to quite understand, but at least he understands that sometimes his underlings need morale boosters.

iv. at first draco thought that she was the youngest weasley, with her hair just a touch darker, just a touch more blood-coloured, with her skin a little less freckled and a little more like so much cream, but her derisive laugh brings to mind first pansy and then someone, anyone, who is distinctly un-weasleyesque. at first, draco wasn't attracted -- only the thought of fucking little weasley's brains out, the thought of what that would mean to potter, to the other weasleys, to the mudblood granger, urges him on.

and then he grows to enjoy it.

v. she doesn't protest. that's the thing he notices second. the other ones, they protest, no matter who it is taking them. but she, she never protests, and sometimes, when he's buried in her, she'll cock an eyebrow at him and that's all it takes to undo him.

vi. and those peacocks. he swears they're looking at him sometimes, straight at him, and he could just _swear_ that they _know_ something. and their comfort seems shallow, too shallow, and it frustrates. and it's pagan, almost, bestial at heart, but one day, when they look at him extra-knowingly, he reaches out. a peacock's neck, he finds, is surprisingly easy to break. sharp rocks are excellent at puncturing, but his nails (run ragged by hours of curse-casting, hours of doting on his superiors) are better at tearing the flesh, and their _blood_. it's warm, and thick, and almost sweet, and he can always blame it on one of those snakes that's constantly around, can't he? and _her_. she seems to enjoy noting the rust-coloured crusts under his nails, enjoys their pungent scent and they way he can never seem to wash it completely away.

vii. and sometimes, when he's fucking her (so hard, so wet, so unsatisfying), his nails catch on her back and scratch her raw -- he never apologises, though initially he didn't mean to do it -- and her blood, it goes under his fingernails, too, and then, suddenly, he doesn't want to wash them anymore.

viii. after the war, she's set free. the two peacocks left, they don't soothe anymore -- not their presence or their tails, not the thought of their blood, flowing into his hands. and he leaves them alone and draws the quilt closer about him. he doesn't need those defense spells anymore. there's no charm against loneliness, no way to absolve himself of sin. for sinned he has: when he couldn't find _her_ anywhere, he took the youngest weasley in a dark alleyway. 'thank potter for me' is what he told her, was his excuse, but as he forced her hands down and away from him, as he forced his way into her, he couldn't help but close his eyes and see that one eyebrow, cocked and sardonic. and he hungers.

ix. of course his marriage is arranged with some buxom brunette, pure of blood and entirely uninteresting. he doesn't bother learning her name until after they're married, and he makes no secret of his disinterest in her. she brings his manservant into her bedchambers some nights, possibly to garner some sort of reaction, but he doesn't care. and he stares into the fire, and wishes fiercely that she were dead, that his parents were gone, that he were back in that dungeon with _her_ in her chains. and he strokes the peacocks, the wrong way sometimes, and sometimes they bite him.

x. one day he sees her in a crowd, or at least, thinks he does. his son is with him, dragging on his hand, begging for something sweet and undoubtedly sticky. draco is loathe to listen to his son -- he wants to follow her -- so he buys the treat in the interest of shutting him up, and calls for his wife. (she's upset at her shopping being interrupted, of course, and gives him a very dark look, but he's too distracted to notice.) and follows _her_ into the fog at the edges of the square.

xi. he doesn't know why he's following her, where this attachment comes from. technically, he's more than satiated with his current lifestyle. technically, he shouldn't be wanting this, wanting _her_. but that doesn't stop him from pushing her against the wall, pushing her down, down to the icy ground, where the dirty snow gathers in her hair and along her cloak and on his hands, and he ignores the cold as he shoves her skirt up and her knickers aside.

xii. and just as quickly as he's found her, she's gone again, and all that he has is the stain of her lipstick on his collar. but that's enough, enough for the tracking spell, enough to _know_.

xiii. he isn't sure if she's surprised when he shows up again, a month later, at the little floral shop she's looking around in. the air smells damp, thick with soil and growth and decay, and there really isn't a logical explanation for him to be here, too. nor is there reason for the door to suddenly be barricaded -- it's not closing time, but the owner suddenly finds himself with a very urgent errand to run -- and the shades (for apparently there suddenly _are_ shades) to be drawn. and the only remainder they leave of their presence is the pooling of some of the earthy water, and shards of homely vases strewn across the floor, and one crushed gladiolus stem.

xvi. 'take me back to your manor', she whispers, once, after he follows her onto the underground, and suddenly he understands. 'are you sure?' he asks, but the question is merely a formality, and he doesn't wait for a response. (she is, of course, placed under the strictest hiding spells, and his wife never finds out)

xv. and this time, the albino peacocks (who have multiplied since the war's end, who have remained albino by sake of certain bloodline spells) that grace his lawns, when they start to disappear -- this time, it is not only him, and the blood dries on her hands, too, and when they couple, the blood only serves to strengthen it.

  



End file.
